


Wait, are you ---?

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (it's a dream smp-er), Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, mcyt - Freeform, possibly crack treated seriously? the first part is at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29647491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: i made a y/n fic, as someone who utterly despises reading y/n fic, because i had a joke. i am way too proud of this.(no character tags because i want this to be a Surprise!!)((mine craft youtubers my beloved/p))
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	Wait, are you ---?

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t like Y/N fics, i’ve never liked reading them even when i was first getting into fandoms, but then i was like “hey untapped market of y/n fics for people who don’t like y/n fics” and here we are
> 
> note: i am a Stickler for cc and fandom cc boundaries. i think this fic'll be okay because there is Nothing Romantic About It Whatsoever, it's just me going "ahahah i want to /lh make fun of this guy" and if anybody has any boundaries content im not aware of please tell me!! these cc's are Very Cool and i don't want to write about anything that makes them even the slightest bit uncomfortable (thank you!!)
> 
> i hope you enjoy the Joke :)

The aisles were stuffed with paperbacks, pages of print and ink scenting the store with its own signature manufactured perfume. Yellow lighting, cozy overfilled couches, sweets being doled out near the cash register from the sweet old lady that ran this place; it all herded in the feeling that this place was home. You grasp hold of an interesting-looking fantasy book and bury your nose in the summary, flipping through the pages when you deem it good enough. The chapters were long, the word-size just right, the melodramatic medieval illustrations drawing you in, painted in shades of gold and red, colours that screamed “read me”. It was all so perfect. You would buy this book, you decided, running the pad of your finger across the spine of the leather binding. Mock-leather, you mused, because of course it was. 

Traveling into another aisle and flipping through a few more possible additions to your bookshelf, another person enters the aisle and starts pointing a finger in the way you do when you’re reading titles and trying to look busy. They stand awkwardly when they reach the edge of the aisle, hoodie pulled up over their head obnoxiously, and you pity them; tapping their shoulder with the edge of the book (It is still a pandemic, after all) that was still clutched firmly in your hands, you speak up.

“What title are you looking for? The organization in this place can be a bit off”

They mumble something, quiet enough for you to understand but still muffled underneath the hygienic mask covering their face.

“Yeah, Hamilton isn’t in the H section, they have it up next to the bestseller table, here I’ll show you”

Plodding over to the table you point out the bright gold book and they pick up a copy, turning it over in their hands. They turn to you with a grateful nod, and you get a full look of the guy's face.

It’s Tommyinnit. Somehow, in America, you have met Tommyinnit and shown him to a copy of a book he probably owns four of. Memories of L’manburg come rushing back in full force and years of pent-up fandom build inside of you, but instead of letting out your inner fan, In the back of your mind a memory tethers itself to your conscious. You grin like a cheshire cat, and before he can respond you speak again;

“Hello, Georgenotfound.”

You’ve done it. Seeing your chance to get out unscathed, you bolted outside with the fantasy book still clutched in your hand, unpaid for, and hear a colourful assortment of words spill from the back of the bookshop. You laugh, because you’ve done it. 

You have made fun of a child. 

Checking the fake rolex on your wrist, you smile again, because it is not yet past 9 pm GMT and therefore you cannot be stabbed. Tommyinnit rushes out, the bouquet of “Motherfucker”’s and “Bitchboy”’s still surrounding him in shades of "fuck you", but you do not care. Hastily unlocking the door of your ferrari, you whoop and slam on the gas without moving the drive off of Park. It does not matter, because as you zip past the feral teenager, you once again yell

“Your Roadman accent sucks!”   
And the look of rage on that 6’1 child's face is more priceless than a ferrari could ever be.


End file.
